The Scarlet Pimpernel
“Do you think so?”
“Lud! they alter a man so . . . but . . . begad! I hope you don’t mind
my having made the remark? . . . Demmed bad form making remarks. . . .
I hope you don’t mind?”
“No, no, not at all—hem! I hope Lady Blakeney is well,” said Chauvelin,
hurriedly changing the topic of conversation.
Blakeney, with much deliberation, finished his plate of soup, drank his
glass of wine, and, momentarily, it seemed to Marguerite as if he
glanced quickly all round the room.
“Quite well, thank you,” he said at last, drily. There was a pause,
during which Marguerite could watch these two antagonists who,
evidently in their minds, were measuring themselves against one
another. She could see Percy almost full face where he sat at the
table not ten yards from where she herself was crouching, puzzled, not
knowing what to do, or what she should think. She had quite controlled
her impulse by now of rushing down and disclosing herself to her
husband. A man capable of acting a part, in the way he was doing at
the present moment, did not need a woman’s word to warn him to be
cautious.
Marguerite indulged in the luxury, dear to every tender woman’s heart,
of looking at the man she loved. She looked through the tattered
curtain, across at the handsome face of her husband, in whose lazy blue
eyes, and behind whose inane smile, she could now so plainly see the
strength, energy, and resourcefulness which had caused the Scarlet
Pimpernel to be reverenced and trusted by his followers. “There are
nineteen of us ready to lay down our lives for your husband, Lady
Blakeney,” Sir Andrew had said to her; and as she looked at the
forehead, low, but square and broad, the eyes, blue, yet deep-set and
intense, the whole aspect of the man, of indomitable energy, hiding,
behind a perfectly acted comedy, his almost superhuman strength of will
and marvellous ingenuity, she understood the fascination which he
exercised over his followers, for had he not also cast his spells over
her heart and her imagination?
Chauvelin, who was trying to conceal his impatience beneath his usual
urbane manner, took a quick look at his watch. Desgas should not be
long: another two or three minutes, and this impudent Englishman would
be secure in the keeping of half a dozen of Captain Jutley’s most
trusted men.
“You are on your way to Paris, Sir Percy?” he asked carelessly.
“Odd’s life, no,” replied Blakeney, with a laugh. “Only as far as
Lille—not Paris for me . . . beastly uncomfortable place Paris, just
now . . . eh, Monsieur Chaubertin . . . beg pardon . . . Chauvelin!”
“Not for an English gentleman like yourself, Sir Percy,” rejoined
Chauvelin, sarcastically, “who takes no interest in the conflict that
is raging there.”
“La! you see it’s no business of mine, and our demmed government is all
on your side of the business. Old Pitt daren’t say ‘Bo’ to a goose. You
are in a hurry, sir,” he added, as Chauvelin once again took out his
watch; “an appointment, perhaps. . . . I pray you take no heed of
me. . . . My time’s my own.”
He rose from the table and dragged a chair to the hearth. Once more
Marguerite was terribly tempted to go to him, for time was getting on;
Desgas might be back at any moment with his men. Percy did not know
that and . . . oh! how horrible it all was—and how helpless she felt.
“I am in no hurry,” continued Percy, pleasantly, “but, la! I don’t want
to spend any more time than I can help in this God-forsaken hole! But,
begad! sir,” he added, as Chauvelin had surreptitiously looked at his
watch for the third time, “that watch of yours won’t go any faster for
all the looking you give it. You are expecting a friend, maybe?”
“Aye—a friend!”
“Not a lady—I trust, Monsieur l’Abbé,” laughed Blakeney; “surely the
holy Church does not allow? . . . eh? . . . what! But, I say, come by
the fire . . . it’s getting demmed cold.”
He kicked the fire with the heel of his boot, making the logs blaze in
the old hearth. He seemed in no hurry to go, and apparently was quite
unconscious of his immediate danger. He dragged another chair to the
fire, and Chauvelin, whose impatience was by now quite beyond control,
sat down beside the hearth, in such a way as to command a view of the
door. Desgas had been gone nearly a quarter of an hour. It was quite
plain to Marguerite’s aching senses that as soon as he arrived,
Chauvelin would abandon all his other plans with regard to the
fugitives, and capture this impudent Scarlet Pimpernel at once.
“Hey, M. Chauvelin,” the latter was saying airily, “tell me, I pray
you, is your friend pretty? Demmed smart these little French women
sometimes—what? But I protest I need not ask,” he added, as he
carelessly strode back towards the supper-table. “In matters of taste
the Church has never been backward. . . . Eh?”
But Chauvelin was not listening. His every faculty was now concentrated
on that door through which presently Desgas would enter. Marguerite’s
thoughts, too, were centred there, for her ears had suddenly caught,
through the stillness of the night, the sound of numerous and measured
treads some distance away.
It was Desgas and his men. Another three minutes and they would be
here! Another three minutes and the awful thing would have occurred:
the brave eagle would have fallen in the ferret’s trap! She would have
moved now and screamed, but she dared not; for whilst she heard the
soldiers approaching, she was looking at Percy and watching his every
movement. He was standing by the table whereon the remnants of the
supper, plates, glasses, spoons, salt and pepper-pots were scattered
pell-mell. His back was turned to Chauvelin and he was still prattling
along in his own affected and inane way, but from his pocket he had
taken his snuff-box, and quickly and suddenly he emptied the contents
of the pepper-pot into it.
Then he again turned with an inane laugh to Chauvelin,—
“Eh? Did you speak, sir?”
Chauvelin had been too intent on listening to the sound of those
approaching footsteps, to notice what his cunning adversary had been
doing. He now pulled himself together, trying to look unconcerned in
the very midst of his anticipated triumph.
“No,” he said presently, “that is—as you were saying, Sir Percy—?”
“I was saying,” said Blakeney, going up to Chauvelin, by the fire,
“that the Jew in Piccadilly has sold me better snuff this time than I
have ever tasted. Will you honour me, Monsieur l’Abbé?”
He stood close to Chauvelin in his own careless, _débonnaire_ way,
holding out his snuff-box to his arch-enemy.
Chauvelin, who, as he told Marguerite once, had seen a trick or two in
his day, had never dreamed of this one. With one ear fixed on those
fast-approaching footsteps, one eye turned to that door where Desgas
and his men would presently appear, lulled into false security by the
impudent Englishman’s airy manner, he never even remotely guessed the
trick which was being played upon him.
He took a pinch of snuff.
Only he, who has ever by accident sniffed vigorously a dose of pepper,
can have the faintest conception of the hopeless condition in which
such a sniff would reduce any human being.
Chauvelin felt as if his head would burst—sneeze after sneeze seemed
nearly to choke him; he was blind, deaf, and dumb for the moment, and
during that moment Blakeney quietly, without the slightest haste, took
up his hat, took some money out of his pocket, which he left on the
table, then calmly stalked out of the room!
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE JEW
It took Marguerite some time to collect her scattered senses; the whole
of this last short episode had taken place in less than a minute, and
Desgas and the soldiers were still about two hundred yards away from
the “Chat Gris.”
When she realised what had happened, a curious mixture of joy and
wonder filled her heart. It all was so neat, so ingenious. Chauvelin
was still absolutely helpless, far more so than he could even have been
under a blow from the fist, for now he could neither see, nor hear, nor
speak, whilst his cunning adversary had quietly slipped through his
fingers.
Blakeney was gone, obviously to try and join the fugitives at the Père
Blanchard’s hut. For the moment, true, Chauvelin was helpless; for the
moment the daring Scarlet Pimpernel had not been caught by Desgas and
his men. But all the roads and the beach were patrolled. Every place
was watched, and every stranger kept in sight. How far could Percy go,
thus arrayed in his gorgeous clothes, without being sighted and
followed?
Now she blamed herself terribly for not having gone down to him sooner, and
given him that word of warning and of love which, perhaps, after all, he
needed. He could not know of the orders which Chauvelin had given for his
capture, and even now, perhaps . . .
But before all these horrible thoughts had taken concrete form in her
brain, she heard the grounding of arms outside, close to the door, and
Desgas’ voice shouting “Halt!” to his men.
Chauvelin had partially recovered; his sneezing had become less
violent, and he had struggled to his feet. He managed to reach the door
just as Desgas’ knock was heard on the outside.
Chauvelin threw open the door, and before his secretary could say a
word, he had managed to stammer between two sneezes—
“The tall stranger—quick!—did any of you see him?”
“Where, citoyen?” asked Desgas, in surprise.
“Here, man! through that door! not five minutes ago.”
“We saw nothing, citoyen! The moon is not yet up, and . . .”
“And you are just five minutes too late, my friend,” said Chauvelin,
with concentrated fury.
“Citoyen . . . I . . .”
“You did what I ordered you to do,” said Chauvelin, with impatience. “I
know that, but you were a precious long time about it. Fortunately,
there’s not much harm done, or it had fared ill with you, Citoyen
Desgas.”
Desgas turned a little pale. There was so much rage and hatred in his
superior’s whole attitude.
“The tall stranger, citoyen—” he stammered.
“Was here, in this room, five minutes ago, having supper at that table.
Damn his impudence! For obvious reasons, I dared not tackle him alone.
Brogard is too big a fool, and that cursed Englishman appears to have
the strength of a bullock, and so he slipped away under your very
nose.”
“He cannot go far without being sighted, citoyen.”
“Ah?”
“Captain Jutley sent forty men as reinforcements for the patrol duty:
twenty went down to the beach. He again assured me that the watch has
been constant all day, and that no stranger could possibly get to the
beach, or reach a boat, without being sighted.”
“That’s good.—Do the men know their work?”
“They have had very clear orders, citoyen: and I myself spoke to those
who were about to start. They are to shadow—as secretly as possible—any
stranger they may see, especially if he be tall, or stoop as if he
would disguise his height.”
“In no case to detain such a person, of course,” said Chauvelin,
eagerly. “That impudent Scarlet Pimpernel would slip through clumsy
fingers. We must let him get to the Père Blanchard’s hut now; there
surround and capture him.”
“The men understand that, citoyen, and also that, as soon as a tall
stranger has been sighted, he must be shadowed, whilst one man is to
turn straight back and report to you.”
“That is right,” said Chauvelin, rubbing his hands, well pleased.
“I have further news for you, citoyen.”
“What is it?”
“A tall Englishman had a long conversation about three-quarters of an
hour ago with a Jew, Reuben by name, who lives not ten paces from
here.”
“Yes—and?” queried Chauvelin, impatiently.
“The conversation was all about a horse and cart, which the tall
Englishman wished to hire, and which was to have been ready for him by
eleven o’clock.”